


choosing to do wrong

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Depression, Drinking to Cope, Introspection, Religious Guilt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:22:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sean is a good Catholic.





	choosing to do wrong

Sean is a good Catholic.

Okay, that might be a stretch. He’s not a _bad_ Catholic, but that doesn’t make him a _good_ Catholic – but he’s not a bad one either. He prays, every night, reciting the Act of Contrition on the weekdays and devoting Sundays to the Holy Rosary. He goes to church every Sunday, without fail. Every Sunday. Every single Sunday.

Did he already mention he prays every night?

But then he has to get to the reason he prays every night, and that’s because he, well… does he have to think about that? On today, of all days? Does he have to reflect on the fact that he goes up to that podium and lies to reporters and the American people for a president who doesn’t even have the decency to respect him as a human being?

So yeah, he’s not a good Catholic, but he’s not a bad Catholic either, except that doesn’t count for anything because here he is, in the Vatican, in the Holy See – and he can’t fucking meet – he can’t meet – he –

Fuck, he can’t even bring himself to say the words, now can he?

So instead of being, well, _there_ , he’s here, at the hotel bar, on his third or fourth or fifth glass of… of…

“Hey, hey, uh, what is this?” Sean asks, gesturing to the bottle he’s holding. “And how many – how many – you know, drinks have I, have I had?”

“Too many, if you’re asking that question,” someone says. Sean recognizes the voice but he can’t quite place it so he doesn’t try to.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off and shakes his head, looking around for his glass. It was right there on the bar except now it isn’t and the bar is pretty wet but the bottle is still in his hand and he’s bought it so, by all rights, he should be able to drink straight from it.

Except when he moves the bottle to his mouth, someone pulls it down. The hand is soft and warm, but firm and secure as the bottle is pried out of Sean’s hands and set down back at the bar. “I think that’s more than enough, Sean.”

Sean blinks a couple of times and then his vision clears and Jim Acosta sits before him, face set in an expression of concern. He pulls out his wallet and hands the bartender his card before turning back to Sean. “Let’s get you back to your room, huh?”

“What’s the point?” Sean sighs. He wipes his forehead with a wet hand and shakes his head. “What’s – what’s – what’s the point? There’s no point. Everything’s fucked.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Sean scoffs. “It’s – it’s all – all fucked. I hate this president, I hate – I hate everything.” He tries reaching back for the bottle but his hand is swatted away.

“Since you’re drunk, I’m going to say all of this is off-the-record,” Jim says, a slight chuckle to his tone, but his expression remains sympathetic. He stands up from the stool and tries to help Sean to his feet. “Where’s your room key?”

Sean absently pats his pockets and frowns when he finds them empty. Shit. “Shit. I – I lost – I lost my wallet.”

“It’s right here!” Peter Baker comes up from behind him and holds up the wallet. “And before you ask, no I didn’t steal it – you dropped it over there before you migrated over here for your, well… whatever this is.”

There’s a beat of silence while Sean tries to process what Peter’s just said. “You stole my – my wallet?” he tries to grab it from him but his legs feel heavy and he ends up plopping back into his stool.

Peter looks from him to Jim and raises his brows. “You, uh, need some help here, Jim?”

“Some help would be greatly appreciated, Peter,” Jim says. “Help me get him up?” He pulls one of Sean’s arms over his shoulders and Peter does the same, and then they’re walking over to the elevators. It’s weird because Sean’s arms are stretched out and his feet skid over the ground because they’re both much, much taller than him and also his feet don’t feel right and neither does the room because everything seems to be spinning.

“I pray,” he says, all of a sudden. “I pray every night. Every night. Every single night, I pray. Did you know that?”

“ _Now_ I do,” Peter mumbles.

Jim chuckles a little. “Come on, Peter, cut him a little slack. He’s drunk and depressed.”

“I know, I know.” Peter’s the one to call the elevator and Jim more or less gestures Sean inside, leaning him up against the wall before pushing the button for their floor.

Sean’s head is still spinning. He looks up at the ceiling or maybe down at the floor when he speaks. “Do you know the Hail Mary?”

“I think I know it from TV or something,” Peter admits.

Jim nods and snaps his fingers. “Hail Mary, full of Grace, something something…”

“I used to know it in Latin,” Sean says, voice trailing off into a sigh. “I used to know all of it in Latin but I stopped for a bit and I did it in English and then I just… forgot it all.” He lifts his head or lowers his head and looks at the men standing across from him. “Do you think that’s why I couldn’t meet him?”

“God,” Peter says, “this is so surreal.”

“You’re telling me,” Jim mumbles in response. He clears his throat. “I don’t think it has much to do with how religious you are, Sean.”

“You think I’m religious?”

Jim glances over at Peter before turning back to Sean and giving him a slight smile. “Yeah, I – I think so.”

The doors open and then they’re back the way they were earlier, Jim and Peter supporting Sean at both sides while he staggers through the hallways, looking for his room.

“Do you remember what room you’re in, Sean?” Jim asks.

“It’s on the card, but I can’t reach it unless we stop walking,” Peter says. “Hang on, hang on.” He starts shoving his hand into his pocket while they crawl to a stop, fumbling with the wallet for a few moments before dropping it out of his hands.

It doesn’t hit the carpet, though, because someone else is picking it up and holding it out, and it takes Sean a few moments to recognize Hallie Jackson.

“Did someone go on a bender here?” she asks, arching her brow.

“This one here,” Jim says, inclining his head toward Sean. “Mind pulling out his room key and seeing where we need to go?”

“Sure, but first…” She pulls out her phone and taps the screen. “Smile for the camera, you three.”

Jim grins, Peter puts up a peace sign, and Sean just looks blank.

“Came out just as I thought it would,” Hallie says as she pockets her phone. She pulls out the card and chuckles. “Would you look at that, this is for that room right over there. Come on.” She walks on ahead and the three follow her at a slower pace.

“I think my shoulder’s giving out,” Peter grumbles a little. His back is hunched down to Sean’s level and there’s a fine shine to his face. It takes Sean a long moment to realize that it’s sweat.

Jim rolls his eyes. “You should work out more, Peter,” he chides playfully. “You can let him lean on me a little more if you want.”

“My New Year’s resolution was to work out more,” Peter says.

“What have you been doing since January?” Hallie asks as she pushes the door open.

Peter looks sheepish. “Well… not working out?”

Jim laughs, bright and full, and Sean is a little surprised by it when he first hears it because he hasn’t heard that sound in a long while because all he’s heard is just angry shouts of angry questions from angry reporters like Jim and he’s never taken the time to appreciate the fact that Jim is quite beautiful.

The way the light hits his face makes him look like he’s glowing and Sean finds himself leaning and leaning and leaning – and then his lips are pressed against Jim’s hand as he pushes him away. “Woah, Sean,” he says, teeth gritted a little, “I, uh don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sean blinks and blinks again. “What?”

“I don’t think he understands what you’re saying at this point,” Peter says. “Or what he’s saying.” He pauses. “Think we could ask him about Russia?”

“I don’t think that would be fair,” Hallie points out. She puts a hand on Sean’s back and helps guide them into the room. “I also don’t think he knows.”

“I know,” Sean insists, because his first instinct nowadays is to fight back at whatever anyone is saying to him. He turns his head back to Jim. “I know you’re beautiful.”

Jim presses his lips together and even in his inebriated state, Sean can tell he’s fighting back a laugh. “I’m flattered,” he says, unable to stop himself from smiling, “but I’m also married.”

“And you have a boy–” Peter’s words are cut off by a sharp elbow to his chest by Hallie and he stammers a moment. “You – you have a _friend_ in Jake Tapper, I mean.” He clears his throat. “Yup, that’s what I meant the whole time.”

At that, Jim actually laughs. He shakes his head with a smile as they gently seat Sean on the bed. “I’m sure you did,” he hums.

“Congrats on that, by the way,” Hallie says. “I heard about it from Liz. She was pretty excited to tell me about it.”

“Friendship is a wonderful thing,” Jim says, still smiling. “You guys can head on out, I’ll just help him out of his shoes and leave some water out for him for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “We’ll be right outside in case, well… you know…” He gives Sean a look but Sean doesn’t see it because he’s looking up at Jim.

Jim nods. “Yeah, I’ll let you know,” he promises. He waits until they’ve stepped out and then bends down by Sean’s feet, untying his shoes and pulling off his socks. “You’ve got any Advil here?”

“I’m sorry,” Sean says instead.

“It’s all right,” Jim says with a shrug. He stands up straight and looks over at the bedside table. “You’ve got water over there and I’m sure you’ll find, well, whatever medicine you have tomorrow. Just go to sleep, yeah?”

“I’m sorry I’m so mean,” Sean continues, ignoring whatever Jim is saying because it’s not important. What’s important is that he gets this out because maybe this is his way of getting forgiveness. Maybe this is his Act of Contrition for today because if Jim Acosta can forgive him, maybe God can too. “I don’t mean to be so mean. I don’t – I don’t hate you. I don’t. I think you’re amazing. I’m so sorry.”

Jim doesn’t say anything for a moment. His arms are crossed and he looks down at Sean with a tired expression. “Sean,” he says, “you lied about crowd sizes on your very first day, and it’s just gone downhill from there. I’m not forgiving you. This is – this is all on you.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry you couldn’t get to meet the Pope, but maybe it was for the best, because I don’t think he’d approve of what you’re doing.”

He puts Sean’s shoes by the edge of the bed and dusts off his shirt. “I hope you don’t remember this in the morning,” he says, and heads out without another word.

Sean doesn’t know how long he sits there, just ruminating in his words. Because – because he has a point. Because Sean hasn’t been truthful and he hasn’t been kind and he hasn’t been anything he should be and it doesn’t matter that he’s praying every night because prayers without action don’t mean anything and God won’t guide you if you don’t follow him.

No, God will forsake you.

He sleeps without praying. What’s the point? He’s going to hell anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> reap what you sow, Sean


End file.
